Chapter Text
The city lights bled past the car windows, washing their faces in sickly gold and passing neon. John kept one hand tight on the wheel, the other drumming an anxious rhythm on the dashboard. His words hung in the air, lingering in the soft darkness between them. For a moment, the only sound was the muted hum of tires on blacktop, the faint, breathy snore of Eli sprawled in the back.
Sam let the silence stretch, his own thoughts circling like vultures. Finally, he spoke. “You ever think about how we got here?” He shook his head, lips pressed thin. “Hell, if you’d told me three years ago I’d be sitting in a car with you, talking about second chances, I’d have laughed in your face. Or maybe punched it.”
John gave a tired grin. “Trust me, nobody’s more surprised than me. Last time I got this sentimental I was wearing the stars and stripes, and that… didn’t end so well.” He stared into the darkness, jaw set. “But I figure we get one shot to pull ourselves out of the wreckage. Bucky figured that out before any of us.”
Sam’s eyes flicked over. “Yeah. Bucky always could see the good in people—even when they didn’t deserve it. Guess I should take a page outta his playbook, huh?”
From the backseat, there was the creak of old leather and the soft scuff of Eli shifting awake. He blinked, disoriented, catching the tail end of John’s confession.
Eli finally piped up, voice soft but certain. “You two really are a mess. Good thing you’ve got each other.”
Sam turned, surprise flickering in his expression. “Thought you were asleep back there.”
Eli grinned, shifting his legs and sitting up, rubbing at his eyes. “I was. Then you guys got all deep and heavy. Couldn’t sleep through the sound of grown men facing their feelings.”
John snorted. “Kid, get used to it. There’s a lot of that around here lately.”
Sam let his gaze return to the blur of passing streetlights, but some of the weight in his shoulders seemed to ease. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you didn’t quit, John.”
John offered a half-smile. “Yeah. Me too.”
Eli, already drifting again, mumbled from the back seat, “Don’t get too sappy. Still gotta find out who tried to kill Bucky before we all start singing kumbaya.”
The three of them rode in silence, city sliding by outside, each man alone with his thoughts—but not as alone as before.
A few days later
The air in the meeting room felt thick as Sam stood at the head of the table, eyes weary from the restless days and sleepless nights since returning from Madripoor with John and Eli. Every face around the table was fixed upon him.
“So, here’s what we know,” Sam began firmly, leaning slightly forward onto his knuckles. “The bullet used against Bucky wasn’t some exotic import—this thing was manufactured right here in the States.”
Murmurs erupted, disbelief echoing softly around the table. Torres cleared his throat, stepping forward as Friday’s blue-tinged holograms flickered sharply to life.
“Specifically, the bullet was assembled at a covert facility just a few hours away from here, under military cover,” Torres said, his voice tense but controlled as he activated the holographic display. Blueprints and diagrams floated in the air, sharp and damning in their clarity.
“We know the substance involved—it’s from Project Nightshade, originally developed as part of a classified military initiative.” Torres flicked another hologram forward, revealing an older, heavily redacted document stamped TOP SECRET.
“Project Nightshade was an initiative launched by the government initially back in 2009. Its primary asset was an experimental compound: the Anti-Serum Suppressor Round—nicknamed the Nightshade Bullet. Designed specifically to neutralize enhanced individuals—super soldiers and mutants alike—by rapidly incapacitating their healing and regenerative abilities. Essentially, the bullet turns their own bodies against them, triggering catastrophic cellular breakdown and neurological damage.”
“Jesus,” muttered John darkly, his jaw clenched tight. Yelena’s fingers twitched reflexively, her eyes sharpening with barely concealed anger.
Torres nodded grimly, continuing, “The original project was classified and later abandoned due to severe ethical concerns. It fell under Pierce’s jurisdiction during his tenure, but after S.H.I.E.L.D. fell, the whole initiative was reportedly scrapped and all existing samples were ordered destroyed.”
Ava’s gaze narrowed. “But obviously, that didn’t happen.”
Torres swiped the hologram again, bringing up another document marked with red lines and annotations. “Exactly. Official reports claim the complete destruction of every existing sample of the Nightshade formula, but we have proof here—some slipped through the cracks. More disturbingly, recent evidence has surfaced indicating the project’s secret revival.”
The room went silent as Torres displayed the final document—recently dated, deeply encrypted, and heavily censored. “It seems someone within the government recently authorized a black ops reboot of Project Nightshade, focusing exclusively on targeting enhanced individuals. This time, however, the compound has been heavily modified, its potency significantly increased.”
Sam stepped forward again, arms crossed tightly as his voice dropped lower. “They had insider access to the highest level of government secrets. And right now, we can’t trace it back directly to anyone specific.”
“But we’re certain of one thing,” Torres concluded, turning to face them all, expression solemn. “Officially or unofficially, someone high up wanted bucky dead.”
A chilling silence filled the room, broken finally by Sam’s quiet yet steely resolve:
“We’re going to find who authorized this, and we’re going to hold them accountable—no matter how high up the chain we have to climb.”
The meeting had eventually drawn to a close, each participant slipping away into their own contemplative silence, leaving Sam with an undeniable pull toward the medical wing. He navigated the heavily fortified corridors, security protocols humming quietly as they authenticated his presence, allowing him to approach the cryogenic pod where Bucky lay.
Sam stepped into the sterile chamber, the quiet hiss of machinery his only greeting. The pod stood prominently, sleek Wakandan technology humming softly, its surface cloaked in a thin layer of condensation. Through the frosted glass, Bucky appeared peaceful—an illusion that tugged sharply at Sam’s heart. It felt disturbingly akin to staring through a window in time, freezing a moment Sam desperately wished never existed.
Resting his palm against the cool exterior of the capsule, Sam’s gaze dropped to the monitors flickering with vital statistics. Heart rate stable, neural activity minimal, but the stubborn indicators for infection and inflammation remained troublingly elevated. He sighed deeply, frustration and helplessness heavy on his chest.
“You stubborn bastard,” Sam whispered. “I swear, buck, if you don’t hurry up and beat this thing, I’ll kick your sorry ass myself when you finally decide to wake up. You’ve made your point, okay? I messed up. I need you here, yelling at me, not stuck in some damn frozen coffin.”
Sam’s voice trailed off, his throat tight as his knuckles gently rapped against the pod. Time lost its meaning as he stood there, half-expecting Bucky’s eyes to flicker open, a smirk emerging on his face, ready with a sarcastic retort.
The quiet whoosh of the automated door behind him signaled Cho’s arrival, her gentle footsteps echoing softly across the polished floor. She stopped beside him, gaze compassionate yet direct. Sam didn’t look at her, continuing to stare at Bucky’s motionless form.
“Any change?” he asked quietly.
Cho exhaled gently, her tone patient but mildly amused. “Sam, that’s the seventh time in four days you’ve asked me. Trust me, the second anything changes, you’ll be the first to know. But patience is key here.”
“Yeah,” Sam muttered, rubbing his forehead tiredly. “Patience was never Bucky’s strong suit. And now it’s not mine either.” He paused briefly, a hint of worry creeping into his voice. “Do you think he dreams in there?”
Cho hesitated, her expression thoughtful as she looked at the pod. “Honestly, I hope not. Considering his past, dreams might not exactly be pleasant right now.”
Sam’s jaw tightened slightly at the thought, guilt flaring sharply within him. Cho seemed to sense it immediately, her hand striking his shoulder with surprising force, drawing an exaggerated wince from him.
“Ow! Jesus, Cho, did you have to hit me that hard?” Sam protested, rubbing his shoulder.
She gave him a pointed look. “Enough of the guilt-tripping, Sam. Punishing yourself isn’t helping him or you. Science and medicine can do only so much. Trust the process and focus on what you can control.”
Sam sighed deeply. “I know,” he admitted reluctantly. “It’s just…I can’t help but feel responsible.”
Cho’s features softened slightly. “Bucky’s strong, and he’s already made it further than most would have in his situation. But the reality is, we might be looking at weeks, even months, before the pod signals that he’s ready to come out safely. We need to trust the technology—and trust Bucky.”
He nodded, his gaze once more drawn to the still figure encased in the futuristic machine. “Yeah, well, he better hurry. I’ve got one hell of an apology waiting for him.”
Cho smiled softly, turning to leave Sam with his thoughts. “I’m sure he already knows.”
As they stepped out into the corridor, the hush of the medbay replaced by the even quieter echo of their footsteps, Sam lingered beside Cho, arms folded tight across his chest. Every time he walked away from Bucky’s pod, it felt like leaving something vital behind. He tried to ignore it, tried not to glance back over his shoulder, but habit—and worry—held him in place longer than he’d meant.
It was then that a figure appeared at the far end of the hallway, moving with the careful purpose of someone who belonged, but Sam’s instincts flared. The man was tall, lean, with deep brown skin and the proud bearing that spoke of Wakandan heritage. His black technician’s jacket was crisp and new, bearing the familiar vibranium-inlaid sigil of the Panther on one shoulder. His hair was cropped short, and his eyes flicked to Sam and Cho with polite deference.
Sam’s jaw tightened. “Hey—hold up,” he called, stepping forward. “You need something? This wing’s locked tight, friend.”
The technician paused, holding out a slim ID badge and a sleek Wakandan datapad. He answered, “captain, I am Kofi Nkosi, here at Princess Shuri’s request. I’ve been sent to run a systems diagnostic on the cryogenic pod—just routine maintenance, nothing more.” His smile was small and carefully nervous.
Sam didn’t move. “Routine, huh? Funny, I don’t recall any visits being cleared with me.”
Cho touched Sam’s arm—gentle. “Sam. It’s fine. Shuri mentioned sending someone, and I gave authorization a few days ago. He’s just here for the capsule’s systems—I don’t handle half that Wakandan tech, and you don’t want me pretending I do.”
Sam, not entirely reassured, nodded stiffly. “Don’t touch anything except the capsule. And Friday is watching, so no funny business.” He shot a look at the overhead camera.
Kofi dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Understood, Captain Wilson.”
Cho gave Sam a look—part amusement, part warning—then shepherded him down the hall, their voices fading as they turned a corner. Kofi waited a beat, eyes following their retreat, then palmed his access chip and stepped into the cryogenics chamber.
Inside the sterile glow of the cryogenics chamber, the Wakandan technician—Kofi—closed the door behind him, the hiss of the seal almost theatrical in the silence.
Kofi’s polite, almost timid smile vanished the instant he was alone. His entire posture changed: shoulders squaring, jaw setting with cold precision. He glanced once at the overhead camera, then at the frozen figure in the pod.
Slowly his lips twisted in a cruel half-smirk, eyes filled with a dark amusement.
He did not utter a word. Instead, keeping one eye on the cameras, he slid his hand into his jacket and drew out a compact device—just enough to catch a glint of metal in the blue light, his thumb caressing its side with unsettling familiarity. He studied it, his gaze reflecting a private satisfaction, then, careful not to give Friday’s sensors any reason to flag his movements, slipped the device quietly back into his pocket.
He gave one final, mocking nod toward the glass, then composed himself, resuming the mask of the dutiful technician.
Bucky was not as safe as they all believed.